The King's Eye

Chapter 42

  Matis stood in the center of the room hunched over a table, one hand supporting him against it as the other pointing in different directions. It had been like that for hours, orders being barked to annoyed printers who were reluctant to comply.

The orchestrated movements reminded me of a ballroom, rehearsed and practiced and repeated again they danced. Ink rolled. Parchment placed. Plates pressed. And just like a ball, the men did not want to be present and yet there they were. Hanging up the papers to dry before distribution and then starting over again.

In the shadows I watched them, careful not to make my presence known. Matis had hesitated when I asked to come along, questioning my intentions as a spy for the other side. He was right to.

From the moment I had become one of the Les Oreilles it was nothing more than a title. I was a pawn in a much bigger game. Not figuring out how to play, too focused on rules and regulations and not enough on how to work around them, I had been lost. Watching taught me, though. Listening to the knowledge being shared across tables between Jacques and Elodie had given me everything I needed. Strategy was the way to the prize and Matis had played into my hand.

I had won and now I lied in wait.

The older voice I had heard on Avenue de Paris, called from across the room, drawing my eyes to the door. A taller man with a graying beard stood proudly with a hand on his hip. "Has Matis been nice to you gentlemen?"

Several of them grunted in response, not stopping to talk. "I am always nice, Martin." My brother rolled his eyes. Our mother's eyes. "If they would work without question I would be even nicer."

"How many have been printed?" He sounded unimpressed. A loud crunch echoed across the high ceilings as Martin took a bite from an apple. "Marat expects these to be distributed at dawn."

"That was not the agreement."

He took another bite of apple, talking and chewing. "I am but a messenger," he shrugged.

Matis stood up, his arms going wide into the air to point at all of the drying papers. "If he wants perfection he must be patient. The ink is still drying on—"

"I would suggest taking down and preparing what is dry, then." Sitting down at the far end of the table, he put his feet up on the table muddy boots and all. "Again, I am only a messenger and the boss wants these to start going out at Dawn."

Eyes shifted to me, my brother suddenly hesitant to speak. "Let's talk in the office. I don't want the men hearing this." It took everything to hold back the smiling curling upward across my face as our eyes locked.